


The Good Old Days

by Aris



Series: Poetic Nonsense [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, M/M, Poetic nonsense©
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <em>It chars my heart to always hear you calling</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Calling for the good old days</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Because there were no good old days</em>
    <br/>
    <em>These are the good old days</em>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Old Days

"I was so _thin,"_

He's strewn across the hotel bed, denim coloured limbs splayed and dark against the pristine sheets, rumpled t-shirt rising up to reveal a pastiche to bruises, dark and bright all at once. His hair has been stroked backwards, messy and sticking up at the edges of his fringe, and half lidded green eyes spoke of narcotic eastern deities, rimmed in red and smudged eyeliner. Grasped between pale pale hands sat a fraying magazine, beginning to fade at the edges from use. 

Tony struck a low note on his bass, adjusting his hold. 

Loki rolled onto his side, bringing the magazine with him but fixing his straying gaze to Tony instead, one skeletal finger stroking at the double spread picture before him. 

"Don't you think, darling?" 

The bassist stared straight ahead at the wall, pupils boring into the tedious stretch of yellowish plaster. 

Letting the magazine fall back to the bed, Loki rocked onto his back once more, reaching out for the cigarette carton dropped at his side. 

He lit a cigarette, something grossly nostalgic in the movements. 

"Those were the good old days." 

"Where's Loki?" 

Tony was miming his bass before him, forcing himself to learn where on the strings he had to be and when. 1, 2, 1, 4, 1, 1, break, 4 - A tanned hand came down on his arm, strong but gentle, and Tony was wrenched from his music space. He frowned, glancing up to see Clint, hands falling to the plastic table. 

Clints' face was serious, set in a definite downwards expression. Old. Worried. The trials of being without an addiction. 

"Have you seen Loki?" 

Tony cursed. 

"You can't keep doing this,"

He smiled up at him, the only time he ever really did, and his dry lips cracked grotesquely, blood welling up in the dry grooves. Tony slumped to the ground next to him, already accustomed enough to this to know they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. Calloused hands raised to rub harshly at his forehead, mind suddenly buzzing with an impossible weight. 

They were two weeks - _two weeks_ \- into their tour of America. Tomorrow night, they were hitting New York City, the big apple, and Loki - Loki hadn't been sober since Liverpool, two years ago. He was the head of the band, the alluring white boy with all the stereotypical hanging of beauty, and god, they'd all seen it a hundred times before. Dark hair. Drugs. A voice like nothing else - and Tony would be damned if he and the whole fucking world didn't fall for it every time. 

The man in question, hazy eyed and unnaturally relaxed, pulled limply at the bottom of Tony's jeans, face twisting into some sort of expression Loki must have considered pleading. Tony sighed, pulling out a bent cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, pulling in the first burning drag before leaning over Loki, ignoring the way his dark hair splayed out around like a mocking halo, and placed the filter between bleeding lips. 

Green eyes shuttered in pleasure as a shaky chest rose, ribs casting shadows through the slim material of his shirt. Tony could picture the rapture in the angles of his face. 

"You hear me?" 

A pale hand reached out, grasping at the edge of Tony's polo and tugging him down. He let himself go, still leant over Loki, and watched dimly as the cigarette was released from pallid lips, falling down from his mouth and narrowly missing burning the hollow of his dark cheekbones. 

Loki mouthed at his jawline when it was in reach, silent and rasping, and tiny wet trails let Tony know blood was being painted onto his jaw. Loki bit down on his skin, gently, hungry for something more. 

Tony ran a hand down the singers hip, feeling a deep gorge stretch out between his stomach and hipbone. 

So hungry. 

Tony sets his bass down, staring at the figure on the bed. 

So _fucking_ \- 

He stood, pulling at the brown leather jacket on the wardrobes side, and strode abruptly for the door, whiskey and and tobacco on his mind. One hand on the cool metal of the handle, he hesitated, glancing back to the pitiful enigma behind him. 

"There were no good old days." 

The door clicked shut. 


End file.
